


our coming of age has come and gone

by pissedofsandwich



Series: second leading man / supporting role [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BokuAka Week 2020, Breaking Up & Making Up, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining Akaashi Keiji, Post-Time Skip, can be read as a standalone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25625992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: Which one is harder, Akaashi thinks to himself, to stay in or fall out of love?On relearning love with distance and redefining what it means to be soulmates: Akaashi and Bokuto’s B-side ofhave my sympathy.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: second leading man / supporting role [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1854484
Comments: 12
Kudos: 97





	1. confessions

**Author's Note:**

> tw for ch 1: underage drinking (nothing graphic, everyone is responsible)
> 
> shout out to [mortalatte](https://twitter.com/mortalatte) for reading me like a book and subsequently kicking me in the face with cold hard facts. everyone go follow her <3 and of course, i owe everything to taylor swift, who just told me yesterday that she wrote 'peace' about bokuaka.
> 
> if you're here from [have my sympathy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24909823/chapters/60278257), hello! thank you for bearing with me. if not, don't fret, you can read this as a standalone bcs at the core this is just another getting (back) together fic. i have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this fic, as it is the most personal, hefty thing i've ever written, but for now i'll let you guys be the judge.
> 
> please consider retweeting this on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tinysriasih) or talk to me! i always have too much thoughts.

Once, when they are both 17 and 18 and on the precipice of a life-changing moment, Bokuto drags Akaashi and the rest of the third years to his house for a sleepover. He puts on video games, orders way too much food, breaks into his parents' liquor cabinet, and shares a bottle of premium-quality  _ umeshu  _ between the six of them. Needless to say, being in high school and certain lightweights, they get very, very drunk in no time.

Until now, Akaashi can't figure out why his self-restraint broke on that day. When he reflects on it the day after, nursing a raging headache and a taste in his mouth like a rat had died in his throat, he realizes what he's done is decidedly awful and dangerous. Underage drinking is nothing to be proud of, and once Bokuto's parents are home, surely, they will take notice of the missing bottle in their cabinet.

"Nah," Bokuto assures them, his smile wide and owlish. "They never notice anything like this. Seriously, we'll be fine, Akaashi! Stop worrying!"

Telling him to stop worrying, Akaashi muses, is as futile as telling a worm to stop wiggling.

"Oi, Konoha! Get the cups!" Bokuto yells over his shoulder. When he trains his eyes back on Akaashi, it's gleaming with glee and mischief, and Akaashi imagines Bokuto as a five-year-old, snatching one too many cookies out of the jar without his parents catching on. His face would most likely be similar to this.

Konoha comes bounding into the kitchen bearing a stack of red solo cups, a syrup mix cradled in his armpit. Akaashi notes the discrepancy in drinking such a high-quality liquor from something so disgustingly American and cheap as plastic cups. Bokuto spreads the cups on the counter, pouring the amber liquid little by little. He grins. "Gotta pace ourselves," he says, with the air of someone who spent an hour Googling how to drink alcohol as a high schooler.

When his fingers brush Akaashi's as he passes the cups along, it feels too much like a cliché. Like Akaashi's drunk already.

"Please don't try to chug it in one go," Akaashi tells him.

"Of course not, Akaashi, what kind of amateur would do that?" Bokuto says, cradling his cup indignantly.

Komi finds Mario Kart, and they all file into the living room, placing dares and bets that Akaashi mostly skips out on until he finishes his first cup, and tries to drown out the gut-twisting combination of dread and excitement at the thought of next week's graduation with laughter and an active refusal to be nostalgic. The latter is especially hard on Bokuto, who's near tears already as Washio, who looks barely affected by the drinks, if at all, beats him for the tenth time.

Bokuto's proximity to him increases the drunker he gets. Their fingers touch again, and Akaashi feels hot all over from something that's suspiciously not alcohol. Bokuto smells clean, like the deodorant spray he used to spritz all over himself after every practice or match when showering doesn't feel enough to scrub off the dirt and grime from an intense play, the one Shirofuku complains makes him smell like a fuckboy, but fainter, hidden under detergent and a cool scent he can never put his fingers on. Bokuto leans on his shoulder, cheek pressed against the cuff of his arm, moaning something about missing Akaashi's tosses already. Komi yelps, tells him that Bokuto's broken the law on being nostalgic, and Bokuto pouts but drinks up.

Later, Akaashi wonders if that last drink is what drives Bokuto to do it.

He volunteers to do clean up just so he'd have some space from Bokuto. Into a garbage bag the cups and empty snack wrappers go, methodically going through the motions just for something to do that isn't confronting the way Bokuto looks at him. Or the way he  _ knows _ he's looking at Bokuto.

He goes into the kitchen, disposes of the garbage bag. He listens to the rowdy voices from the living room, lets it sink in that this is all going away so very soon, and tries not to drive himself into an early grave thinking about who he'd be without the third years. Without his friends.

On the glass panel of the refrigerator, he catches movement out of the corner of his eyes. Akaashi turns around.

Bokuto, his cheeks tinged a pretty red, looking as lost as Akaashi feels.

Akaashi swallows. He thinks, with a surefire clarity,  _ Bokuto's going away. _

For years to come, this moment, frozen in time, will have him questioning the true strength of liquid courage. It must be the only reason why he feels compelled to let Bokuto invade his personal space, backs him up against the refrigerator, breath ghosting hot over his cheekbones. Bokuto raises two fingers, trails them soft down his jaw, and Akaashi doesn't dare to breathe. The disconnect of knowing what Bokuto's hands can do, slamming down a ball with a whip-like crack, a sound that reverberates through Akaashi's bones like they want to rattle and shatter—it's almost impossible to reconcile it with how gentle Bokuto is being. His bones threaten to fracture, but it's in an entirely different feeling. It's much more dangerous.

But the moment their lips touch feel inevitable, like they're always meant to be kissing. Akaashi doesn't have the time to overthink things, not when Bokuto's lips are soft and moving on his, with a tentativeness that feels so foreign, and an earnestness that is just  _ Bokuto _ in everything he does.

Akaashi is ashamed of the sound he makes in the back of his throat when their lips part. It makes Bokuto laugh, warm and tender.

Bokuto presses their foreheads together, and Akaashi's lungs stutter, heart leaping in his throat.

"What am I going to do without you, Akaashi?" he asks the space between their mouths.

Akaashi stills, because what lies in that space is something very, very fragile, and it takes just the wrong puff of breath to smash it all into pieces.

"You can certainly do many things without me, Bokuto-san."

A safe territory. Deflect. It slides right off Bokuto, washed away like rainwater on mud-stained shoes.

"Akaashi."

Akaashi will always remember the way Bokuto says his name, he thinks. All the ways Bokuto calls out to him: obnoxious and clingy as he spots him walking in through the gate, yelling and demanding on court, sad and dejected when he gets down—quiet, like a secret he doesn't want to keep, every syllable spoken like he will burst if he doesn't, like Akaashi's name is the only name he wants to say.

"I need you," Bokuto confesses. "Like—I really, really do, Akaashi."

It isn't like Akaashi didn't already know it, but—

When he was a first year, stumbling over his growth spurt and a layer of baby fat he couldn't quite burn off, the retiring third years warned him of the whirlwind that was Bokuto Koutarou.  _ That Bokuto Koutarou? He's a work in progress _ . Akaashi never understood why it was said like a terrible thing, as if anyone, at 16 years old at that, was ever finished at figuring themselves out. He gets told all the time, even by Konoha, who Akaashi knows considers Bokuto a close friend,  _ you've got your work cut out for you _ , like Akaashi's been misplaced with some burden he didn't ask for. 

But it was him who decided to go follow a star after seeing him one time. It was him who decided to observe Bokuto, catalogue all 37 of his weaknesses. It was him who wanted to see Bokuto playing at his most excellent, soaring high as if he had wings, hands outstretched like he was reaching for the divine, simply because it was  _ satisfying.  _

It was Akaashi who fell in love.

All his quirks, the extreme shifts between on and off, this black and white thinking where he doesn't think he can ever be good at anything if he fails at one thing—those are manageable things. Akaashi's positive it will get better with the right treatment, sticking to a routine that works, and Bokuto's own iron-will to better himself at anything. In truth, while Bokuto may see Akaashi as a necessity now, Akaashi may only be a stepping stone. Someone fortunate enough to witness the birth of a star, in hopes that one day, when he's perched on top of the world, Bokuto remembers—there was a person who supported him all through high school. A footnote in his happiness.

Bokuto's scouted into a powerhouse university in Osaka. Seven out of ten times, the collegiate star players get recruited immediately into the national team. It's a free pass to the Olympics, the top of the world stage. Bokuto will be there, shining as he always has, and he will not have a need for Akaashi, who knows that his volleyball career will always be short-lived. 

He remembers reading an English phrase once—'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have never loved at all. He thinks it's wrong; if he gives himself a chance to love Bokuto like this, instead of the quiet, burning kind that suffocates and grinds him to dust, he will never survive the fall out when the flame eventually dies out. He knows about the story of Icarus, and as the sun is also a star, he knows no one survives a supernova. It's his responsibility to save them both from the heartbreak.

So he takes Bokuto's hand, fits them over his own—longer, but Bokuto's fingers are sturdier, marked with calluses and little cuts from overworking himself—and kisses him one last time.

In the end, he doesn't answer.

*

They fall asleep as a pile on the floor of Bokuto's parents' living room. Despite the complete silence, Akaashi finds it hard to fall asleep. 

In the slow, fading darkness, Akaashi jerks fully awake from the limbo between nightmares and consciousness. Bokuto's hands lie limp at his sides, still only when he's asleep. Akaashi wants to reach out. Now that he knows how their fingers fit over each other, he wants nothing more than to do it again, memorize the feeling before soon, everything changes.

He imagines their hands, reaching for each other. They'd make shadows on the wall, kissed by the sun rays. By nightfall, they will be gone, perfect darkness like they were never here at all.


	2. mutual pining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for this chapter: panic attacks 
> 
> this is for day 2: mutual pining/obliviousness. the pining is mutual, believe me, bokuto is just going through A Lot.

They don’t talk about the kiss, and that’s just as well. It doesn’t matter if Konoha keeps staring at the two of them like he’s personally caught them against the refrigerator, Bokuto stealing glances at him like he isn’t sure if he’d dreamed up the kiss all on his own. Soon, the third years graduate, and any fleeting hope of catching a star in the palm of his hand fizzles out as the new normal settles.

The only thing Akaashi dares to take from Bokuto is his number four. 

He practices more spikes than he had in the last two years. Fukurodani’s strong spikers are down to one with Washio and Bokuto gone, and though the first-year middle school MVP is a promising starter, Akaashi knows the team has to evolve. Their newest manager, Haru, a fellow third-year, is quieter than Shirofuku, eats a lot less, and doesn’t smile as much as Suzumeda does. But when Akaashi asks for training footage, she’s quick to provide him with commentary too, pointing out all the spots Akaashi could’ve exploited more with the new starters.

At training camp, they face Nekoma after a string of bad games. Task focus is hard to employ when the sun slowly sets outside the gym, signaling a four hour interval since he last ate a fulfilling meal. The watermelon he devoured dissolves into weightless water in his gut, and his legs are sluggish, his hands useless like  _ umeboshi _ . He tries to give his all, anyway. One win is all they need to turn their confidence around.

It’s at the match point that Akaashi stumbles, slips up and shouts, “Bokuto-san!” as he tosses. He only registers the name once it’s out of his mouth. And then, it’s inevitable: a dam breaks, and Akaashi’s helpless to stop the rush of the feelings from flooding in. 

The first-year spiker hits it just fine, aims to land the ball just inside of the bounds, too close for the second-year libero to call. 25-23. Anahori whoops, glad he doesn’t have to do another one of those killer diving drills, and the first-year yells with him, overexcited about the possibility of crispy salmon and curry at dinner. 

Onaga slaps his back, playful. “Bokuto-san, huh?” 

Akaashi’s trying to catch his breath. It’s not because of the exertion of the game. “Sorry,” he offers. “Force of habit.”

Being in love is an inconvenience, he decides. How naive that he thought dealing with it when Bokuto’s gone will be easier. Task focus means that he cannot linger on the things he can’t control, but the feeling is like a chasm inside his heart, digging deeper and deeper as the days pass him by. Missing Bokuto is like losing his limbs, and now rendered immobile, Akaashi doesn’t have a choice but to feel it. 

Kenma, hair tied and sporting number one, eyes him curiously from across the net. 

*

_ Let’s keep in touch,  _ Bokuto had said the day of his graduation. Akaashi doesn’t kid himself into thinking it’s a promise. Disappointment tastes bitter on his tongue with every day that passes without Bokuto’s name in his list of new messages, so Akaashi does not let himself hope.

Instead, he throws himself into volleyball. He has a promise to fulfill— _ next time,  _ he remembers the way Konoha sniffle, Bokuto’s arm around his shoulders, a furnace next to his beating heart,  _ next time, you bring back the trophy for Fukurodani _ —and in the face of an insurmountable goal, everything else blurs in the background. He deactivated his five am morning jog alarm—without Bokuto to match his pace, he exchanges the exercise for an extra one hour in the gym practicing spikes, then trains Onaga to do the setter-switch that would’ve made Karasuno green with envy. 

(It’s a pity they didn’t make it this year. But in their stead, a wall of iron, Date Tech looms tall, and Akaashi plans every move to crush them when they meet in the quarterfinals.)

Ichibayashi loses in the first round. It’s funny, the wheel of life. When Akaashi thinks about Ichibayashi, he thinks about the bitterness that comes with settling for second place, the feeling like someone’s grabbed something out of his fingers before he even had it fully in his grasp. Snatched right under his nose. He’s been looking forward to a revenge match, and he can tell that Onaga and Anahori feel the same way—when he sees their name crossed out the brackets, something not quite like a loss sparks in his chest. It isn’t a victory when it’s not his hands that bend it. 

When Fukurodani makes it to the final round, Akaashi rounds the corner only to walk into a wall of the former third years. They shout and hug him even when Akaashi tries to tell them not to, if only because he stinks, and they make him promise to give his 120% against Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“The one with the nasty wrists,” Komi notes with a disgusted shudder. “Every libero’s worst nightmare.”

Akaashi isn’t trying to notice the absence, but Konoha picks up on it anyway. When Komi and Sarukui disappear to hunt for finger foods, he leans into him and says, “Bokuto sends his best wishes.” He’s tentative about it, almost apologetic. Akaashi slips into a neutral expression; it’s a comfort, at this point, giving away nothing. He’s had a lot of time perfecting the craft. “He has practice.”

“Of course,” Akaashi says. “Send him my regards back.”

Konoha stares at him. He always looks at Akaashi like this when it concerns Bokuto; like Akaashi’s told an unfunny joke, and he couldn’t be less amused. “Really, Akaashi?” he says. “‘Send him my regards back’?”

Akaashi blinks at him. 

“What would you have liked for me to say?” he says. “I could revise it to suit your needs.”

Konoha gapes at him. “Are you  _ serious?” _

Akaashi doesn’t bother to dignify himself with a response. Konoha likely knows, but it can stay a secret he takes to his grave so long as he refuses to open his mouth. Sarukui and Komi come bounding back, hoarding a world of snacks between them—corndogs, onigiris, fresh fried salmon skin. Without asking, Akaashi takes one of the onigiris for him. 

“Hey,” Sarukui chastises, but Akaashi knows he’s never meant it. Konoha gets distracted by corndogs, as Akaashi predicts, and the topic is blissfully dropped. Akaashi watches them climb up the stands with promises to cheer for him the loudest— _ please don’t, I can’t afford to get distracted _ —and convinces himself that it means nothing that Konoha only thought to mention Bokuto, when Washio’s also absent. 

The task at hand is defeating Itachiyama. 

(He’s learned that it’s an impossible task to not miss or think about Bokuto.)

He saves his onigiri for later. A consolation prize or a celebratory snack, but he sincerely hopes it’s the latter. 

He walks back to his team, speaks to them as captain, and marches onto the court with a single-minded focus. 

*

They lose.

It’s a split second decision between diving for the ball and taking one wrong step. Akaashi collides with Onaga, and sparks fly behind his eyes before pain blooms, pressing against all sides of his skull. Anahori confirms later that he didn’t get up for a full minute, but to Akaashi it feels blearily like seconds. When he lifts his chin and touches his mouth, his hand comes away wet. 

He looks up at the scoreboard. 13-15, for Itachiyama. 

The ball is not saved.

*

“No sports scholarship?” his guidance counselor asks, two days after he retires as captain. A week after his loss. 

“I don’t think I want to keep playing volleyball,” Akaashi admits.

The guidance counselor considers his response. His hands are woven together in front of him, praying that he’s heard Akaashi wrong. “Head traumas can be—”

“No,” Akaashi says. “This isn’t about the injury. I can assure you that I’ve not been traumatized by the last game.”

“Can you tell me, then, why?”

Akaashi looks at the university brochures in front of him. Grade-A universities with good sports programs. He can get away with playing as he always has. Keeping his grades up will not be an issue if he picks a major with enough leeway to let him do the bare minimum. Akaashi won’t have to give his 120%; if he plays his cards well enough, he can graduate just fine, find a quiet job at a quiet neighborhood to quietly settle down in. 

But that’s not him.

(Besides, he doesn’t say to himself, none of these universities are in Osaka.)

“I’ve accumulated a considerable interest in literature,” Akaashi says. “I’d like to pursue it as a career.”

The guidance counselor sighs. It appears that he’s accepted that this is a decision Akaashi won’t budge his mind on. He gathers the brochures on the desk and dumps them on his right drawer. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about why you love literature.”

Akaashi frowns. “I didn’t say I  _ love  _ it.”

“You have to, if you want to spend the next four years balancing student debt in a field that’s very…”

Akaashi’s heard it all before, mostly from his mother: a field that’s hopeless, doesn’t make money, near impossible to be successful in unless you’re the second coming of Haruki Murakami,  _ are you even in that level, Akaashi? Or is this one of your fleeting obsessions, like volleyball? Do you know how expensive those volleyball shoes are? And now you’ve gone and wasted _ —

“Niche?” Akaashi supplies. 

His guidance counselor starts. “For lack of a better word,” he mutters. “You need to understand, it’s not that I'm trying to discourage you, but we need to make a solid game plan if you really plan on making a living out of this field. It’s not going to be as easy as, say, the safer options—like business or finance, for example. So you need to at the very least love it.”

Akaashi thinks about the match. They had lost, and just like that, Akaashi failed to fulfill his promise. The blood in his mouth had tasted acrid, like iron, and through the ringing in his ears, he couldn’t hear anyone calling out his name. He’d stayed at the infirmary, missing even the award ceremony, and fought to keep himself awake as the league doctor poked and prodded at his head. He’d had a small concussion, which had healed just fine in two days, but there was nothing that the doctor could do about his chipped tooth or cut-up gum. 

The former third years had apparently filed into his room as soon as he was brought out on a stretcher, which had been embarrassing for Akaashi to hear. Onaga might have begged on his knees for Akaashi to forgive him, but he couldn’t be sure. It could just be Anahori making fun of him. 

He remembers, though, with crystal clarity, that Bokuto called him. Well, he called Konoha and demanded that the phone be given to Akaashi. Konoha’s BlackBerry didn’t support video calls, but hearing the worry in Bokuto’s voice had been enough to make Akaashi want to get up and challenge Sakusa Kiyoomi into a rematch immediately. He wishes he’d remember the words Bokuto gave him, but he was floating in and out of consciousness; all he had to remember it by was the warmth in his chest, comfort like a cocoon of wool blankets.

He feels around his mouth for his chipped tooth. 

“Yes,” he says to his guidance counselor. “I will.”

*

This is what Akaashi can bear:

For the last two years, when he takes the train to go home, he's surrounded by noise. Sarukui munching on a sandwich, Washio grunting one syllable responses to Bokuto's monologue, Konoha chipping in at times to hurl a roast at Bokuto's expense, Komi's long-suffering sigh. Bokuto memorizes each of their stops—because he just does that, cares deeply and  _ loudly  _ about the people around him—and nudges their shins with his foot when they're approaching their station, even before the automated voice announces their arrival. Akaashi's taken to listening to music throughout the ride, even going as far as sleeping when it's really late and he's too exhausted to keep his eyes open.

Bokuto always wakes him up, lets him know when he should be prepared to get off soon, and  _ don't forget to eat a good meal, Akaashi, or else you'll stay this thin forever.  _

It used to annoy him, until Akaashi jerks awake from the screeching halt of the car, and belatedly realizes he's two stops past where he's supposed to be. He curses, ends up walking all forty blocks to his house as night falls, his phone overheated and dying from overuse.

If it's a habit, Akaashi can unlearn it. He keeps the volume of his music low and his eyes on the running kanji above his head, and wills himself not to fall asleep. He dedicates more time to study, takes more extra-credits than he has to, and finishes his freshman-level reading ahead than planned. Sometimes, he even visits the gym, just to smell the familiar scent of rubber and air salonpas, but never to join in, even as a guest. Onaga understands, and after the first time, doesn't ask anymore. He builds a near-perfect, unbreakable routine, just to lie on his back at nightmare hours of the night to realize he hasn't thought of Bokuto all day.

And then, he's back to square one.

This is what Akaashi cannot bear:

Bokuto replies every text once a day. Sometimes, he leaves Akaashi on read for days. When he remembers to reply, he's apologetic, and makes promises to do better. He doesn't. He tells Akaashi they should Skype. One Friday night, a mutually-agreed allotted time, Akaashi waits and waits for the red bubble next to Bokuto's name to flash green, and waits some more. The night gives way to Saturday when Akaashi realizes that Bokuto's not gonna call. Bokuto swears he’s  _ really, really sorry _ , but Akaashi’s stopped believing in any half-made plans to catch up. He has other things to do, too.

Bokuto finishes his first year at Osaka, and Akaashi graduates. Only the former managers manage to make it to his graduation, and they watch with twin smiles as Akaashi rips out his second button and buriesit in a loose panel on the volleyball court. After, they treat him to ice cream, and Akaashi doesn't buy the matcha sundae, because Bokuto isn't here to inevitably pick the worst flavor and whine at Akaashi about how he wishes he'd gotten matcha instead. Akaashi won't have to share his ice cream with anyone. 

He gets vanilla.

"Vanilla? Come on," Suzumeda says. "When there's a whole  _ mint chocolate chip  _ there?"

"It tastes too much like toothpaste to me."

"Ha!" Shirofuku hoots. "See, Suzumeda-chan? Akaashi agrees with me. Your pro-mint choco stance is now invalid."

"I don't think personal preference can be invalid," Akaashi quips.

"Yes, but I'm the nutritionist between the three of you, so my opinion’s the one that holds more weight."

"I really don't think it's what it means to be a nutritionist, Shirofuku-san."

"Sshh, Akaashi! Semantics!"

They sit at a corner booth, Akaashi squeezed between the girls as Suzumeda attempts to get everyone into one big group call. Washio excuses himself, unfortunately still at class, but sends his congratulations and wishes him good luck for the future. Konoha calls him a coward for not skipping the class to call Akaashi.

"Please, Konoha-san, if you have class, then you should go," Akaashi says. "I wouldn't want to cause you trouble."

"Nonsense. My prof only requires 80% attendance and I haven't skipped one class since the semester started, so I'm good," Konoha shrugs. "'Sides, he uploads all his lectures on Youtube."

"Ugh, I hate those professors," Suzumeda laments. "It's like, I'm not paying for an online degree! Give me something real!"

"Right!" Konoha snickers. "By the way, Akaashi, I know you probably already have your subjects planned out, but as your senpai I'm going to give you this: do not take seven am classes." 

"Uh uh," Shirofuku agrees.

"I don't see the problem," Akaashi says. "We used to have seven am classes in high school all the time."

"Ha!" Komi scoffs. "That's a rookie mistake, Akaashi!"

" _ Never  _ take morning classes," Suzumeda emphasizes. "Please. Don't make the same mistake I did."

By the time the last person—Washio, finally out of class—hangs up, Akaashi's ice cream is long gone, and Shirofuku's already gotten up for seconds. He has a whole arsenal of college tips that he isn't too sure what to do with, but keeps close just in case any of those becomes usable. Suzumeda's phone overheats and turns itself off, and Akaashi offers his own phone for her to use in case she needs to make a call.

It buzzes as he hands it over, Bokuto's name flashing on screen. A text message, three chat bubbles long, and Akaashi swallows. 

"Ah," Suzumeda murmurs, almost like an afterthought. "So he remembers."

*

Sometimes, it's Akaashi's fault too:

In his first semester, a boisterous high school couple who, by some miracles, managed to both get accepted in the same university takes him under their wing. Akaashi doesn’t remember how they became acquainted. All he remembers is that they share a class, and that’s apparently all the reason they need to rope Akaashi into their yakiniku dates.

Bokuto shoots him a message, asking if he's free. He sees the notification pop-up, his fingers already itching to reply, but Misaki from the Arts and Culture department heaps piles of barbecued meats on his plate and tells him to eat up before her boyfriend, Watanabe, devours everything. She tells him he's too thin, which prompts Watanabe to protest— _ you're always telling me to lose weight! I'm the same weight as Akaashi, just big-boned! _ —and Akaashi thinks,  _ later.  _

Later turns into the next morning when Akaashi stumbles into bed half past midnight, not nearly drunk enough to forget chucking off his shoes as he dives headfirst into the pillow, but enough to wake up slightly disoriented and hurting from a mild headache. He tries to blink away the residue of sleep still clinging to his eyelids when he looks at his phone and remembers.

Shit. His seven am class.

It isn't Akaashi's proudest moment, rushing to class with his buttons done wrong, the embarrassment of having to concede that  _ Konoha  _ is right about one thing burning the tips of ear red.

Misaki takes one look at him, his unruly hair and wrinkled shirt, and smirks wolfishly up at him. Akaashi decides she’s the devil for looking so put together when she drank twice his amount of alcohol. He slides into the seat next to her with minimal grumbling. Still smirking, she pushes her massive thermos in his direction, nudging him softly with the cuff of her shoulder. Akaashi can smell the distinct aroma of coffee even through the closed lid. 

“Two things my sister told me before I started university,” she whispers. “One: do not go to university with a boyfriend. Two: avoid first-period morning classes at all costs.”

Akaashi grunts.

“Obviously, I was too proud to listen to her,” she continues, gesturing at her desk, the open textbook and her laptop, stuck at 12% while updating. “And that asshole Watanabe followed me all the way here, so, like, it’s not my fault at all that I started out my freshman year as a taken woman. But for the second one—” she taps the body of her thermos lovingly. “Nothing a little caffeine fix can’t solve.”

Nodding in thanks, Akaashi pries open the thermos lid, taking two big gulps greedily. The bitter taste burns his throat—Misaki exclusively takes her coffee without sugar for 'less calories'—but instantly wakes him up, and as he returns the lid, he decides he may have judged Misaki way too soon. Perhaps she is an angel in disguise. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and Misaki grins wide, pats his shoulder twice like the third years used to do when he got choked up before games, and doesn’t try to initiate more conversations for the rest of the class. 

He doesn't get the chance to reply until after lunch, the text forgotten under a slew of assignments and pop-quizzes. But by then, Bokuto's no longer in need of him, and their conversation hits a roadblock until the next time Bokuto frees up enough of his time to send him a response. 

He doesn’t try to convince himself that the wide interval hurts a little less now that he’s gotten a year to get used to the infrequency. The blame is on the distance, he thinks. A bond forged out of repeated, constant exposure is bound to strain under the six hours of train ride between the two of them, when in the past, it had only taken a phone call to meet up. Once volleyball, the only common denominator that provides the structure of their friendship, is taken out of the equation, consequently, they're left with nothing to stand on. All the pillars are gone. If Akaashi traverses through their correspondence in the last year, nothing he will find is more than simple formality: birthday wishes, happy holidays, subtle updates on their lives that never go beyond pleasantries, because with them, the fact is quite stark. They no longer have things in common.

Akaashi is getting better at admitting this disappoints him. Just a little—he doesn't let it derail the course of his day. But his chest aches in a different way; he wonders if this is what it feels to be a planet revolving around a star. They're not meant to intersect, much less collide; in that case, the world will simply end. Perhaps it's enough that the star is the center of his universe.

(But the star has also kissed him and told him that he needed him plainly in the galaxy between their mouths. Akaashi should feel smug with the knowledge that all along, he knows Bokuto doesn't, not really. He is still trying to figure out how he feels about it all. He’s trying to let himself feel the things he’s feeling without assigning a label or a reason for it; at least, that’s what the university-issued therapist says will be good for his anxiety.)

Nonetheless, it’s no less miserable to deal with, so he takes up a part-time job at the library to completely erase the concept of free time from his vocabulary. Having nothing to do, these days, directly leads to wondering about Bokuto, as if the universe, once it’s aware of Akaashi’s deep, terrible infatuation, decides now that Bokuto’s the sole destination to the trajectory of his life. Being busy helps point his attention to an area that’s tangible and certain, and if he ends up too exhausted to stand upright at the end of the day, he simply counts it as a win.

(Sometimes, he sees Konoha, the only one out of his second-year volleyball circle who ends up going to the same university as him, trudging along his fellow group of pharmacy students, carrying thick volumes of chemistry and medicine textbooks into the communal studying area. Konoha was ecstatic when he found out, taking him under his wing in the infancy of his freshman year until their schedules got too hectic to squeeze in a meet-up, and then, like the trickling of water, the rate slows, and the most Konoha gives him when he sees Akaashi is a polite, acknowledging nod. 

It’s probably enough.)

*

For his creative writing class, he writes a story. It doesn’t matter what it’s about; all you need to know is that the story is close to his heart. He cares for each character the way a mother fusses over their newborns, writes them with the attention of a jealous lover, even when they are terrible, irredeemable people. The end product will be something that he can confidently say he’s proud of: a story where no one plays the background or the supporting role. In his story, each character will contribute an equal amount of importance to the resolution of the main conflict. No one will be treated like an afterthought.

His professor thinks it’s the reason for the many unnecessary side-plots in his story. He asks Akaashi to consider removing some parts, just to make the story more compact. Easily digestible.

Akaashi’s reasonable when it comes to most things, but with his craft, he’s as stubborn as it gets. Instead of deleting, he alters the paragraphs, edits around his professor’s comments and revisions. He presents the newest version with his jaw tight, rebuttals at the ready. This is something that belongs to him, he thinks. He  _ owns  _ this, he will defend it, and if he risks ruining his streak of perfect As, it will be worth it. 

He’s standing at attention, ready to fire. He realizes he doesn’t have the audacity to be surprised when his professor sighs; he is, evidently, making a bigger deal out of this than he’s supposed to. His professor is  _ annoyed  _ at him, and for a poster student, this is a first. He doesn’t think he likes the feeling.

“Akaashi-kun,” his professor says. “Have you thought about why you’re so adamant to keep everything?”

Akaashi launches into his pre-made statement. “Each of the characters represent the seven overarching themes in this story. For example—”

“No,” his professor shakes his head. “I don’t mean from a storytelling point of view. Reach deep within yourself. Think. What is it that makes you want to write this story?” When Akaashi offers no reply, he sighs again. “A lot of writers use their writing as an outlet for catharsis, to help them process something that had happened to them, wonderful or troubling. And that’s perfectly fine. There’s an undeniable authenticity in telling your honest truth, and that sets you apart from the thousand of hopefuls in this digitized industry, but don’t you think that there’s a benefit to be had from being not so attached?”

_ He’s doing it again,  _ Akaashi thinks. Phrasing a statement as a question, so his listener thinks they come to the conclusion all on their own, free of influence. It’s one of the unfortunate facts of being in literature: no one talks straightforwardly. He almost forgets he’s not supposed to miss Bokuto and his lack of brain-to-mouth filter. 

“I don’t have to give you a lecture about killing your darlings,” his professor continues. “I believe you know better.”

Akaashi blinks, unfazed. “As I was saying—”

“Akaashi-kun,” his professor cuts in impatiently. “It’s okay to write pieces of yourself into this story. Deleting some parts doesn’t mean deleting yourself.”

Akaashi frowns, adjusts his glasses in discomfort. “This story is not about me, sir.”

“Is it?” his professor raises his eyebrows. Akaashi hates when he does that; he feels like he’s back on the court, being one-upped, and out of tricks to overcome the challenge. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands together. “The people you know, then.”

_ Oh.  _

Suddenly, the fog clears. Here, plain as day, Akaashi realizes he’s been writing Fukurodani into his story, and he didn’t even  _ notice. _

(And there’s something, he thinks, about the way certain words mean to different people. For other people, Fukurodani is simply the name of one of the four powerhouse schools in Tokyo, a four-story tall building with four overgrown gyms, an area code. To Akaashi, Fukurodani means eight names, the entirety of his second year, and Bokuto, Bokuto, Bokuto.)

His professor merrily continues, unaware of the way Akaashi’s digging his nails harshly into his thighs, reeling from the revelation. “Well, whoever it’s about, remember first and foremost that this is for a grade,” he looks up, “so it will be in your best interests to  _ perhaps  _ listen to my advice. We’re not learning how to write the perfect story, Akaashi-kun—just how to make one that’s coherent. I can tell that there’s a lot that you want to say,”  _ so much,  _ Akaashi parrots in his head, thinking of the way he’s transformed a volleyball court into a land far, far away, untouched by reality, “but then, there’s the page limit,” his professor finishes with a rueful smile. 

“Please don’t think that this means you won’t have a chance to tell the kind of story you want,” he adds, handing Akaashi his papers back. “There’s no time limit for that. But for this assignment—do your best to work around the circumstances.” He pauses. “You’re a great writer, Akaashi, don’t worry.”

_ That’s not good, _ Akaashi thinks. Empty reassurances like that most definitely mean the opposite. He takes his papers with a heavy weight settling on his stomach. As he gets up to leave, his professor decides to drop another bomb, “Oh, and Akaashi-kun?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I notice that you use a lot of star metaphors.” His face must’ve twisted unfavorably, judging by the way his professor amends quickly, “It’s not a bad thing. I was going to say I like it. For consistency’s sake, keep it that way, alright?”

And out of everything, that’s the one that undoes him. Humiliation lodges itself in his throat, breaks through his larynx, and forcefully sinks its claws all the way up to his nasal cavity. He nods urgently, bowing deep in hopes that his professor won’t notice his eyes shiny with the pinpricks of tears. Idly, he thinks therapy must be working because he immediately recognizes this as the signs of an oncoming panic attack, but knowing  _ he's having a panic attack  _ doesn’t make it any easier to breathe, even as he chants to himself,  _ five seconds in, five seconds out, five seconds in _ —

It’s a reprieve when he finally makes it back to his dorm. Blessedly, his roommate’s not present. Akaashi dumps his books and papers on his desk, and he means to walk all the way to his bed—some part of him thinks it’ll be more dignified that way, cocooned in a blanket, shut off from the terrible, crawling  _ shame _ —but halfway through, his knees wobble, and he curls to himself on the floor, clutching his heaving chest. 

He hates this. He hates  _ this. _

The stupidest thing of it all is that Akaashi  _ expected  _ this, called himself a stepping stone before any of this began to unravel, understood that statistically, only a small number of high school friendships survived past graduation--so by all accounts, he should not feel abandoned. 

(This is why Misaki's sister had said to break up with her high school boyfriend.

_ Boyfriend?  _ He chides himself. Bokuto is nothing like that. They kissed once. There's nothing more to it. There's—

There used to be  _ so much.) _

He feels so foolish for having declared himself a protagonist of the world, to think that he mattered in the grand expanse of the ruthlessly vast universe, when he existed barely in the margins of people’s pages. In Bokuto’s, in Konoha’s—in  _ Fukurodani’s _ . He’s the supporting role he so heartfully tries to save; no wonder his professor reads him so easily for filth. He thinks he’s so  _ mature _ , speaking in big vocabulary in a low, calm voice, but he’s become the person that he’d pity to see in reunions: the one who peaked in high school, and still desperately holding on to an era long gone. 

He only picks himself up when he hears his roommate's footsteps approaching. Even then, there’s no hiding the puffiness of his cheeks or the red rims around his eyes. Akaashi’s thankful that he doesn’t mention it; instead, he offers him a cigarette, placid and not unkind. 

Akaashi thinks about taking it. 

(He doesn't, at the end. He hates that in his head, he hears an overly familiar voice, half-whining, drawing out the syllables of his name:  _ Akaaashiiii. Smoking is bad for you!  _ With a pout, Bokuto tucks his chin on Akaashi's shoulder and nags,  _ you're supposed to take care of your body. _ In his head, Bokuto is warm and solid, hanging onto his elbows. 

_ Bokuto is here _ , the Akaashi in his head thinks. It's probably more than enough.)

*

Here is the thing about habits: one way to unlearn them is to replace it with something new. In high school, he had a habit of picking at his fingers when he was nervous, pulling at loose skin at the crescent of his nails until it gave, bleeding fast and sure onto the floorboards. Suzumeda had been the most patient with handling the wounds, berating him softly about the importance of taking good care of his hands, why, especially for a setter, they could just be what makes or breaks a competition. Shirofuku had simply thrust the animal-printed band-aids at him and watched him tape himself up. At the end of practice, as they were walking to the station, she'd slide to his side and hand him a lollipop, a peace-offering. She hated blood, she'd explained, so if Akaashi could be bothered to take better care of his hands, that would be awesome, thank you.

When Bokuto picked up on it, he'd been incredulous. He'd stayed on Akaashi's side all practice, all but glaring at his hands, and under such a close attention, Akaashi had never wanted to fiddle with his fingers more, but every time his hand so much as twitched, Bokuto would already be there, reaching for his hand. Softly, he'd interlace their fingers together, kept Akaashi's hand tight in his grip, even as he was making bold gestures at the coach while he talked. More than once, Akaashi was brought crashing into his chest, his face hot and red, but every time he tried to yank his hand back, Bokuto simply pouted, and tightened his hold. It became clear at that point that Bokuto had no intention to let go, and soon, it became a habit. Nerves would kick in, and Bokuto would be there, his hand enclosing Akaashi's like it was fine-tuned to his moods. It happened often enough that nobody batted an eye. 

The problem with including another person in your habit, Akaashi finds out, is that once that person is gone, you must reinvent yourself anew. No one's going to stop him if he wants to ruin his fingers as volleyball's no longer a part of his life, but Misaki says once that it looks disgusting. She's drunk when she says it, which is how Akaashi knows that she means it. He goes to buy regular band-aids from the nearest konbini only to end up with the animal-printed ones, the type Shirofuku used to buy. He doesn't put on the ones that have owls in them.

Becoming something new, he decides, means starting from the beginning. Misaki thinks he’s gone off the rails, but his mind is made about scrapping the whole story. He hits restart; an entirely new story, what he hopes can be a fresh start. He refuses to believe, at 19 years old, that his time has come and gone.

The task at hand: let go.

The task at hand: write a coherent story.

In two days, what seems to be a gallon of coffee and four hours of sleep squeezed in between lectures, he managed to crank out a week’s worth of writing. He uses no star metaphors. He focuses instead on describing the surroundings because that’s what he knows. It’s probably halfway passable; his professor quirks an eyebrow but says nothing. His grade is a decent 83%. 

“The power of a deadliner,” Misaki muses, squinting at him like she’s trying to figure out what he’s made of. “Fuckin’ impressive. I wouldn’t recommend, though.”

Akaashi laughs even though there’s nothing funny. He’s delirious and so, so sleep-deprived at this point, but he feels kind of accomplished with himself, and for the first time in six years, it's not associated with the exhilarating feeling of a good toss or a merciless setter dump. As Watanabe helps him limp all the way to his dorm, he asks them if they want to be his friends. Misaki smushes his cheeks in her small hands and tells him he already is.

*

One year passes like falling asleep: agonizing, a snail's pace race between his heavy lids and the amalgamation of a day's thoughts and worries, then a freefall, down, down, over before he knows it. He blinks, and his third semester begins: Misaki and Watanabe, joined at the hip, texting him to meet up for yakiniku, their christening ritual now, his supervisor at the library sending him an email reminding him to return some documents to his office, something about a complicated freshman-only rule in the employment guidebook. An improvement: his roommate, Nakamura, sometimes asks him about his day. He hasn't needed to offer his cigarette since the last time, the same way Akaashi stops checking his phones for new messages—not out of spite, just something he grows out of, with new responsibilities taking hold.

He realizes somewhere along the way that he doesn't miss Fukurodani in the all-encompassing way he used to in his first year anymore; it's a flesh wound scabbed over that hurts only when he pokes and prods at it, but most days, he forgets it exists. The group chat just ends up feeling a lot like nostalgia instead of a letter he waits too long to receive, and when he sees Konoha for the last time as he hands in his resignation, he gives him the nod almost on autopilot, one that's entirely too polite, the only thinkable gesture to give someone who used to be a closer friend, but have now drifted apart. He has a suspicion that the half of it is Misaki and Watanabe's joint efforts at befriending him (no matter how much they try to convince him, there is no way he asks them to be his friends like some kindergarten kid while sleep-deprived), which is something he'll have to take his grave to avoid Misaki's head, and by extension Watanabe's, getting exponentially bigger than it already is.

(He mostly just feels fond of them. He wonders why it seems so familiar, their brand of crazy.)

Given the facts, Akaashi tentatively concludes that he's doing fine. 

And then Bokuto calls him.

*

It's somewhere past midnight; all Akaashi remembers is that the sky is much, much too dark outside. His phone vibrates off the desk onto the floor and the resounding  _ thwack  _ wakes him up, cursing but thankful for Sony's hard shell. Bokuto calling him is a rare occurrence. There is no structure to the frequency of his communication with Akaashi, and he's stopped losing sleep over it about a hundred nights ago, but the swoop in his stomach doesn't change—though most conversations are now stilted and awkward, where in the past, there had been an easy companionship flowing between them. Akaashi appreciates Bokuto trying.

(And, perhaps, if he lets himself feel, he's over the damn moon at the notion of Bokuto seeking him out.)

Just not at  _ midnight. _

The possibility of a drunk dial crosses his mind, but—Bokuto doesn't drink. 

“Akaashi?”

His roommate’s fast asleep in the bed next to him, and it’s a struggle to keep his voice quiet and even when his heart starts beating too fast in response to the sound of Bokuto’s voice. It’s low, frightened, too unlike the Bokuto that he remembers. 

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi murmurs. 

“Ah, fuck—” he sounds choked up, like air isn’t getting to his lungs. Akaashi’s palms begin to sweat.  _ What is Bokuto doing?  _

“Bokuto-san—”

“I don’t know where I am,” Bokuto says, rushed and panicked. “Fuck. I know I shouldn't call you like this after--everything, but couldn’t sleep, I had so many thoughts on my mind, like, I tried to go to sleep and it just—won’t shut up. I had all these amazing ideas, new serves and sets my team could try out for the next championship, so I wanted to practice. So bad. But nobody was awake. So I went on a run instead and—”

“Bokuto-san, slow down, please.”

“—and like, in my head, I felt like if I could just get to this clearing that I know I’ve been to, I’d unlock all the secrets to winning the next championship. So I tried to find it, I swear I’ve been there before, Akaashi, I know I have  _ pictures _ , and then suddenly I just—dropped? Like, I can’t feel anything. I’m numb. And I don’t know where I am and nothing makes sense so I called you, because you’re a compass headed to North and you make sense and God I’m sorry I don’t know what time it is Akaashi help.”

Akaashi’s mind is reeling, unable to catch up to half of the things Bokuto’s saying. The final at the last Nationals they went to together, Bokuto’s resolve changed. He hadn’t had the heart to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, not to Bokuto, who was more self-aware than anybody gave him credit for. It was the last time Akaashi had seen Bokuto let his emotions get the better of him. He’d simply thought Bokuto had matured, but this—this feels different. The tone of Bokuto’s voice, the way his breathing comes in ragged—Akaashi feels a chill run down his bones. 

“Bokuto-san,” he says, rummages through the 37 list of weaknesses he still remembers by heart, and woefully comes up short. He sits up on his bed, turns on his desk lamp, earning a pained groan from his disturbed roommate, but his mind’s too full of Bokuto to mumble out even a half-hearted apology. “Can—can you tell me what you see?”

“Trees. I don’t know. A lot of bushes.”

Akaashi curses inwardly. “Can you turn your location on?”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“It’s—” he huffs out a breath. “Your phone. If you pull up the top bar, you should be able to find a button that says—”

“I don’t want to stop talking to you,” Bokuto says. Akaashi tenses; it sounds too similar to the confession against the refrigerator three years ago,  _ I need you, Akaashi,  _ but this, the frantic way Bokuto's reaching out to him, incites the exact opposite reaction in Akaashi. Panic swells up in his throat, but he keeps it at bay—for once, he's trying to be the steady one.

“I won’t,” Akaashi replies shakily. 

“I wanted to talk to you, Akaashi. All day. But I can’t seem to find the time. Everything’s too much, all the time. I want to talk to you when I have my head screwed in right, not when I’m like this.”

“Screwed in right? Bokuto-san, what are you talking about?”

“I tried,” Bokuto rasps. “I want to be an ordinary ace. I don’t want to drag anyone down with me. But it’s—so  _ hard _ , sometimes I just want to curl up and die, and nobody on the team cares. I don’t know how to do anything without you, Akaashi.”

“That’s not true,” Akaashi says, alarmed at the weighty way Bokuto throws that word around.  _ Die.  _ “Bokuto-san, please, can you turn on your location? Can you do that?” He softens his voice, “For me?”

Silence, and Akaashi swears his heart is  _ this  _ close to exploding out of his ribs. “Okay,” Bokuto mumbles. “I’m turning on the location, Akaashi. I can do that.” 

His phone buzzes in his grip, and with trembling hands, Akaashi minimizes the call window. Bokuto's shared location shows that he's nearly five kilometers removed from campus premises. Akaashi lets out the breath he'd been holding. Not too far; in high school, for their morning jogs, they used to cover more kilometers, racing each other until the sun came up. He knows at least Bokuto has the physical capability to make it back just fine.

So with patience, he guides Bokuto back, keeping his voice soothing and his eyes on the blue dot moving real time. 

"You know, Akaashi," Bokuto says. "This is like when I made us run more laps until we missed the sunrise."

_ Bokuto-san's thinking of the same thing.  _ His heart collapses behind his chest. He doesn't know how to tell Bokuto that he only missed the sunrise because he was always looking at Bokuto, at the way his hair, always down for their run — _ I have no time to style my hair in the morning, Akaashi! _ _ — _ seemed to glow iridescent under the morning light, at his brow, wet with sweat, his nose, tinged red with cold. These are the pictures Akaashi holds close to his heart, promises never to tell a soul about. These are the things that belong only to Akaashi.

But his mouth starts moving.

And he tells Bokuto about all the beautiful pictures he sees of him: athletic tape wrapped around two blistered fingers, sun-dried hair in the morning, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his back, bearing number twelve then four, soaring through the air, a figure that inspires Akaashi, his teammates. A star. 

He tells Bokuto about his creative writing class, in the first semester, how his professor calls him ‘starboy,’ referencing the sheer amount of times he’s used astronomical metaphors in his stories until he stops. It embarrasses him to admit, but Bokuto doesn't know Akaashi sees him as a star and laughs, and warmth seeps into his chest since the first time he picked up the call, like the first touch of the sun of his skin as it rises over the halo of Bokuto’s stunning hair.

"We should go for a run again sometime, Bokuto-san," Akaashi says despite his better judgment.

Bokuto hums. "I'd like that."

The blue dot intersects the red arrow that marks his dorm. Akaashi falls back on his pillow, arm over his eyes, relief and exhaustion mixing into one terrible emotion that twists knots in his gut. He doesn't understand what happened yet—this was no bout of impulsivity, like the time Bokuto pulled at the fire alarm just to hear how loud it would sound. He recognized some of the things Bokuto told him, getting way too excited about a certain strategy or ideas, wanting to practice even when it was late or the middle of the night, burning off excess energy by running—Bokuto had a tendency to do all that when excitement was at an all time high, but something about the quality of his actions this time seemed more… detrimental.

Bokuto falls asleep after another hour of Akaashi talking him down. His roommate had woken up hours ago, sending him dirty looks across his side of the room. Akaashi didn't have it in him to apologize. He feels—spent, in a way that’s different from running himself dry with drills or the bottomless hours of spike practice with Bokuto. This feels worse, ingrained deep into his bones, shackles around his lungs, his legs. He’s tired in a way he doesn’t have the words for. 

Seven am class rolls around, and he skips out on it purposefully.

He has three weaknesses, Akaashi realizes. And it's Bokuto, Bokuto, and Bokuto.

*

**_Bokuto-san_ **

** Tuesday, March 18 **

Bokuto-san?

Are you awake?

** Wednesday, March 19 **

Bokuto-san, please reply when you get this.

I’m worried.

** Thursday, March 20 **

I know you’re probably just busy.

But it’d be nice to hear from you. (Message unsent)

Let me know that you’re okay?

** Friday, March 21 **

Are you okay? (Message unsent)

Please be okay. (Message unsent)

Have a nice day, Bokuto-san.

**Sunday, March 23**

hey

akaashi?

Bokuto-san.

It’s been almost a week.

i know im sorry akaashi

fuck i really

dont know what to say

An explanation would be nice. (Message unsent)

It’s okay. Take your time.

just... thank you so much for putting up with me. for helping me back to my dorm

i know you didnt have to but you did

I still don’t understand what happened. (Message unsent)

It’s not ‘putting up’ with you. I just did what a friend would.

no uh you definitely did more than any friend would haha

im just 

realizing how much you did for me. i mean i always knew, akaashi

you made me better

Don’t say that. (Message unsent)

I didn’t  _ make  _ you anything. (Message unsent)

Please you have to realize you’re capable of so much even without me. (Message unsent)

Especially without me. (Message unsent)

Give yourself more credit, Bokuto-san.

i mean sinec high school my head has never really felt right you know

i dont think i feel things normally akaashi

nothing ever stays a constant for me

i dont understand it

but back then i had you

You still have me, Bokuto-san.

I’m still your friend.

and you’re still so fucking nice

i dont know how many times i flaked on our plans

or left you hanging

i wish i could be a better friend. to everyone. to you, most of all

I get it. You’re busy. Playing at a collegiate level is demanding.

I don’t expect you to be at my beck and call.

but you’re always there for me

i wanna do the same

but i just cant

sometimes

Why not?

** Monday, March 24 **

Bokuto-san?

** Friday, March 28 **

Why not? (Message not delivered.)

*

It's the last time he hears from Bokuto in a long time.

(When Nakamura offers his cigarette this time, Akaashi takes it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the previous installment bokuto explicitly said that he has bipolar, but i don't want anyone who reads this to identify then self-diagnose, and for this reason im choosing to keep it vague for this fic. writing this chapter takes a lot out of me as this experience is something that is very personal, and im still going through it... but like, what is writing if not for catharsis right. haha. 
> 
> (can u tell this entire fic is me projecting)


End file.
